


One Big Hippy Party

by sherlocked221



Category: 1960s Music Scene RPF, Bob Dylan (Musician), Crosby Stills and Nash - Fandom, Eric Clapton (Musician), The Beatles, The Hollies, The Monkees
Genre: Hippies, M/M, Orgy, Outdoor Sex, Party, Partying, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-05 04:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14036052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221
Summary: For some reason, its the end of the 60s and a load of famous hippies gather in a house for a party.With egos and sex drives big enough to fit in mansions of their own, tensions run high and hormones get in the way.(Basically was a dream/ask on Tumblr to write this. I had so much fun with it, it ended up being way longer than expected.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to whoever prompted me for this!  
> If you can think of a prompt, please please please send it to me at @sherlockmonkeesstartrek!
> 
> Also, this is my first time writing about several of the guys on here, so if it sounds unrealistic or not like them, please forgive me!

  
“But there is a clear leader in all bands, right?”  
These immortal, stupidly stated words were probably proclaimed by one of the few people at the party that wasn’t actually in a band. I mean, why else would they have opened such a can of worms unless they had no real idea of what they were doing? But they should’ve, whoever it was, since every person at the party was a musician, a big musician. In a band or not, these guys had egos big enough to fill a palace each, yet they were all crammed in some house, bleeding out into the sweltering summer garden since it was far too hot to sit around and smoke inside. Well, that and too many guys crammed together between four walls was bound to provoke the ramming of horns.   
At least it was a statement that everyone technically agreed on. If they had not started up a conversation about who in each group was the leader, they would not have had such a trouble.   
“Oh yeah, course.” John Lennon agreed. After all, he was the one who started the biggest band of the decade. He lay half on a wooden patio jutting out of the house’s back door and half on the green grass which was still damp after a bout of English summer rain that the sun had yet to dry. The garden itself was a simple square with a stone path running through it. Tall wooden fences separated it from the neighbour’s places. No doubt these neighbours on either side had no idea who they were sharing their street with at that moment. If the live jamming session was not loud enough to bring people over asking them to keep the noise down, nor the thick smell of whatever off-brand stuff they were smoking alerting them to something going down, it was unlikely anything would, and they’d miss out on perhaps the strangest, biggest, hippy, celebrity party ever spontaneously held in some residential street.   
“There’s always gonna be one front man.” Graham Nash chimed in as though agreeing, but subtly hinting that he was the front man, he had been the leader. That got a dirty look from his friend sitting on a bunch of coats in the shade. Allan Clarke had a few things to say about Nash’s statement.   
“Oh sure.” He muttered.  
“What was that?”   
“Just that you weren’t exactly the ‘front man,’ were you?”  
“Ok,” Nash conceded, “Perhaps I wasn’t, but…”  
“And you’re not the leader.” Allan snapped. He was sick of his old friend’s sudden inflated ego. Just because he’d started hanging out in America with these new guys - two of which sat behind him, chuckling lightly- didn’t make him any better than them.  
“Well,” Nash laughed, backed up his new band mates- David Crosby and Stephan Stills, “Not anymore, no. But you’re not missing me too much, are you? Struggling to keep them under control, are we?”  
Allan did not look best impressed. His brown eyes narrowed, brow knotted, almost in disbelief. Since Nash had pissed off with his American lot, who he’d fallen starry eyed for, The Hollies had been doing great. Two hits in the last year and a couple of good albums. What had Crosby Stills and Nash done but get high in the studio?  
“I can deal with it, thank you.”  
Nash turned back to his band and laughed, not loud enough so the Hollies could hear- which at the present time only consisted of three band members, as the other two couldn’t make it- as he didn’t need to irritate them to be satisfied.   
However, that smile was wiped off his face when his lovingly nicknamed Croz opened his smug mouth. He was lying on the patio, propped up on his elbows, looking as cool, casual and… well high, as he always did. He basked in the sunlight, shirt open to mid chest, a single chain around his neck glinting bright. But he looked up at Nash, who he felt was punching far above his weight, pretending to be superior to his old friends. One thing Croz didn’t like was authority; he certainly didn’t like people exercising power they didn’t actually have.   
“You realise you’re not the leader of this group, right?” He said.  
Taken aback, Nash stammered. His mind faltered. This fact, he knew, somewhere within him. He was that weird English kid hoping to hang with the cool Americans. He’d always got that sense, but he had been under the impression that there was no group leader of Crosby Stills and Nash. They were just a trio of pretty cool musicians that got together to make some proper music. There wasn’t a clear dynamic. If there was, Nash had seen himself as the glue that stuck the two other huge egos in the group together. Did that not make him the leader?  
“Well, sure, I mean…”  
He was cut off by Stills, who hunched over his guitar, arms hanging loosely over the top of its body. “Oh but you think you are?”   
“What would the band be without me?” Croz laughed. Nash felt the eyes of everyone else in the garden on him, especially that of the Hollies. Despite being faced away from them, their voices were now loud enough to be heard by his ex-band members. He’d not only been chastised by his so-called friend, but now he and Stills were arguing about who was the leader out of them two.   
“Not half of how shit it would be without me. You wanna play guitar instead?” Stills chuckled in challenge.   
“Can we all just agree that you two have got Graham wrapped around your little finger?” A voice piped up from behind Nash. He turned to see Allan once again grinning at him. As he turned away, he heard Croz burst out in a short laugh. A low chuckle came from Lennon and Harrison over to his right. Boy did he feel pretty hurt.   
“Well, look at you and…” Nash pointed at the kid by Allan’s side, his pale skin blushing and mess of a black moptop covering much of his face, “… sorry, what’s your name?”  
The young Liverpudlian boy lifted his head.  
“Terry.” He replied. He felt hurt himself, if not just totally embarrassed. Nash had met him before, played with him before when he was in the Swinging Blue Jeans. He’d thought they were friends. And more than that, he’d not said anything to provoke the man he’d replaced. He wouldn’t dare. Nash had been, if not the leader, then surely a very key component in the Hollies. It had been his and Allan’s band. Terry had heard at least one of the guys call Graham their spokesperson. He understood he had large shoes to fill, and wasn’t keen on stealing them right off Nash’s feet.  
“So what are you, Allan’s puppy?” Nash had based this off the way Terry, who was a shy man, stuck by Allan’s side for much of the party. If he had not been with him, he’d be with Tony Hicks, the other mild man in the Hollies. They’d got themselves a loyal puppy with a black, shiny coat of fur atop his head and could do all the tricks he used to.   
“Come off it,” Ringo Starr sounded from the crowd. He was never one for fights, least of all amongst people he knew to be fiery by nature. He knew from his own band that arguments between musicians were sometimes the nastiest they could get- he got a distinct flashback to the Harrison/Lennon fight they’d desperately attempted to keep out of the media, half forgotten about by the band, but engrained in his mind as a low point of the Beatles. “I thought this was meant to be a party.”  
“You’re just saying that because you’re in the same position, Mr Starr. Aren’t you the Beatles’ groupie?” Croz asked. He’d long given up his adoration of the sacred 60s band. He was sick of them having become the path that all music must follow. He was not going thank them, he was not going to be kind to them. They may be the biggest band pretty much ever, but they were just normal guys, ripping off and stealing other ideas as trend setters often do to make their own stuff.   
“No,” Harrison stated, “Come on, that’s a dick thing to say.”  
“But true, no?” Croz continued, “I mean, he is sitting with the single biggest joke of 60s music.”  
Instantly, in one sentence, he’d insulted five men. He’d already taken a low blow at Ringo, but now he’d swung and hit Mike Nesmith, Micky Dolenz, Peter Tork and Davy Jones.   
“They’re not a joke.” Ringo insisted. The four band members quietly looked away. They all had their egos, little Davy probably had the biggest, and was not a fiery little force to be reckoned with if you ask Peter Tork, who’d been at the tail end of the boy’s temper recently, but they felt just a bit too out of their league to answer back.   
That was until Stills, who was really close to Peter, made an underhanded quip, “They’re even getting a Beatle to talk for them.”  
“Fuck you!” Peter spat.   
“We don’t need anyone to speak for us.” Mike interjected as he lay casually in the shade of the fence. He’d not looked up at anyone, hardly even raised his head, and when he had, no one could tell who he was talking to as he wore a pair of dark sunglasses over his eyes. He was angry, annoyed that people still weren’t taking him seriously, taking any of the Monkees seriously, but he didn’t sound it. One thing he did not want to do was aggravate any of these bands. He’d never admit it to their faces, nor would he talk much while intoxicated in case it slipped out, that perhaps these people were his greatest idols.   
Davy, on the other hand, didn’t give a fuck. His foul mouth was ready to spill a whole paragraph of profanity headed straight for anyone who doubted him, when Micky Dolenz, the friend of them all, insisted, “This is stupid. We’re all fighting over nothing.”  
A few people who’d stayed silent finally made their voices heard by agreeing. Bob Dylan, who with his songs often requested that people stop fighting like bloody idiots, quietly nodded his head. He knew his own power here. He knew that the Hollies practically worshiped him as a songwriter; why else would they dedicate a whole album to him? He knew that John Lennon was pretty smitten too. If not totally in love, everyone had to admit that he was not all that bad at writing and playing music, similar to how everyone had that automatic crush on the Beatles, since they were, undoubtedly, pretty fucking good themselves. And he even had them under his spell. He’d come here to chill out, not listen to people fight.   
As had Eric Clapton. Sitting close to Harrison with a matching guitar to the Beatle, they had been trying to outdo each other’s playing, like a weird call and response thing. He had only stopped toying with the strings of his guitar when everyone had started hurling insults at one another, not out of interest or spectacle, but waiting until they were finished so he could carry on.   
Paul McCartney also wished that everyone would just get on with what they had been doing. He’d disliked the conversation from the get go, since he and John had several bust-ups already in regard to John’s belief that Paul was attempting to take over the band, trying to act like Brian Epstein. It wasn’t true. He was just trying to give the band some direction, a direction that John apparently wasn’t a fan of. Otherwise, he’d never do anything to annoy John. He was too close to him to do that.   
And he probably had enough power himself at the party to calm things down, as well as a loud enough voice to be heard.   
“Let’s just shut up, yeah?” He suggested. Apparently, his power wasn’t quite enough to defuse the whole situation.  
“And you’re only saying that because you’re John’s groupie.”  
He could find no retort clever enough, or one strong enough to reply with. His mind went blank.  
Luckily, or so he thought, John had something to say.   
“I bet you wish you had a groupie as sexy as Paul.” He chuckled. It wasn’t exactly the comeback Paul was hoping for. Entirely confused and surely blushing, he shot a look over at the older Beatle, wondering what had got into him.   
Well, a fair amount of drugs had. They’d got into everyone, making them as unpredictable as they could be. They already were without being completely off their heads. With drugs, you never knew what the hell they’d do next.   
And this was the least predictable response anyone was expecting.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

And this was the least predictable response anyone was expecting.

“Oh sure, he’s alright, but you’ve got to admit, Willie here isn’t too bad as a groupie.” Croz pointed out.

Surprising even himself, Nash- his band mates had named him ‘Willie’ for one reason or another- felt quite flattered at the indication that Croz might find him… sexy? Yeah, that was a good thing. Especially to be preferred over the  _hot_ Beatle. After all, Paul was known for being the best looking, the one that made girls go weak at the knees and wet between the legs. And everyone had the suspicion that John Lennon had been totally taken by Paul since the moment they met.

Still, it was a little weird to hear a comment like that from Croz’s mouth, or from any guy’s.

“Er, guys…” He murmured, wondering whether this was a conversation path superior to the one before. Could it really end well? Unfortunately, he couldn’t think up a way to prevent them continuing quick enough and he was cut off once again by Allan.

“Willie?” He laughed lightly, “That your pet name?”

Nash didn’t even have a chance to answer.

“Did you have one for him then?” Croz asked. Allan grinned wide.

“Yeah, ‘Arsehole’, but yours is nicer.”

“I guess we’re just more of arseholes than he is. We put up with it.”

Nash found himself smiling. Actually smiling. Actually enjoying this. He wondered, for a second, how much he’d smoked, how fucking strong the stuff was, but brushed the thought off. He was only happy because his two closest friends were actually getting along. That was the only reason, right?

“Well,” Allan continued talking to Croz from across the garden, “I’m sorry but if Terry’s my groupie, he’s much cuter than yours.”

Terry, if he had not already turned a bright shade of crimson, blushed, whispering, “Thanks.”

Nash himself shrugged at Croz, almost as if to say, ‘he kind of is.’ He’d given into the conversation by then. He liked it. If everyone wanted to fight over who was best looking, he wasn’t going to stop them. Certainly not if he was in the running. But Croz was unconvinced by his allusion to Allan maybe being right; Terry might be pretty cute. He sat up and looked his English friend in the eye. His long, soft, brown hair framed his chubby face and mixed with his thick moustache that was turned upwards as he smiled.

“Do you really think I’d be like him and prefer that puppy to you?” He asked in a low voice, “You know I didn’t mean what I said before, about you not being the leader. No one is of us.”

Now Nash was sure he too was blushing. His cheeks ran hot, ears burned. Never had he felt so special, so flattered by someone like Croz. He had such a deep connection with this guy, one he had since the first moment they met. It was destined that they’d be in a band together, even if it had just been a duo, he would’ve been happy.

In the absence of talking, George Harrison though it time to add his opinion. Resting on his guitar, lying flat on his crossed legs, he gestured at Ringo, sitting on the outskirts of the Monkees group facing away from him.

“I’d prefer to have Ringo as my groupie.”

The oldest Beatle peered over his shoulder. George reiterated, though Ringo had already heard, judging by the smile turning the corners of his lips to the sky.

“Really?” He sounded quite touched. George nodded and shrugged. It seemed pretty much everyone had acquiesced to the lack of what is proper, according to society, at the party. They ignored the feeling of being judged, the need to appear cool and what not. They were now having fun instead of fighting, and perhaps, just as the drugs had no doubt fuelled arguments, they were instead fuelling a breakdown of inhibitions. Nobody really cared if this conversation had undertones.

Certainly not Clapton, who was more drunk than high and almost deeply offended that his friend had chosen Ringo over him. He ignored the worry in his mind that there were plenty of jokes the guys could make about his next comment, blurting it out before he could take it back.

“Oh I see, so you’d prefer Richie?”

Nobody judged him. No one said anything apart from George.

“Couldn’t I have you both?” He laughed greedily.

“Trust me,” Stills said, “You can have as many groupies as you like.”

“Oh and you would know, would you?” Nash countered.

Stills insisted he had his fair share, “What about Peter?”

A blond bob popped up from behind Mike Nesmith. It had not been seen since the very same man who’d mentioned him had insulted him not minutes ago. Peter was still reeling. He did not look best impressed at other blond guitarist.

“What  _about_  me?” He snapped.

“You don’t like me now, do you?” Stills laughed, “Come on, Hippy. Don’t you love everyone?”

“Aren’t you too high to give a fuck?” Clapton pointed out. That made Peter chuckle. He didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t want to give in, but yeah, he loved everyone, and he definitely loved Stephen. That man had gotten him the Monkees gig. Probably not the best thing he could’ve done, not like a chance to be in a huge, well renowned band or anything, but Peter had made it into something. All of the guys had. They had become a huge band. Peter could thank Stephen for that, even if he did think it was a little substandard.

Eventually, Peter couldn’t help but smile.

“Alright, you fucker. I like you.”  

“But you like Mike better, no?” Davy asked. The three Monkees snickered, privy to an in joke only their band would get. The young band member received two sarcastic, disbelieving smiles his way, one from Peter, the other from Mike, though this seemed all in good fun, a joke they all shared, rather than some dig at one another.

“Only my character.” Peter replied.

“Hu?” Stills grunted.

“Oh, I’m just convinced my character on the Monkees is in love with Mike.”

“So, who actually is?”

The four boys looked around at each other, considering it, and when they all opened their mouths, three answers were the same.

“Micky.”

Mr Dolenz himself had said ‘no one.’ How wrong he was according to his friends. He looked totally confused at them all, warranting a burst of laughter from a couple of the spectators. John, who knew the Monkees well, and Paul, both had seen what the Monkees did, they’d noticed the bromance between Micky and Mike, if it had not only been one sided. And they were as convinced as Peter and Davy that it was not one sided. Micky had a zany personality, not unlike his character on the show, while Mike was a lot colder and shy than his tv counterpart. Micky brought out the crazy side of Mike. They were as close as brothers in a sense. In another, they were partners in crime.

“What the…” Micky lightly giggled, turning his head to the dark-haired Monkee in astonishment. Mike couldn’t deny that he’d noticed a connection they both had, though he didn’t see himself mooning over Micky. No, he saw Micky’s little crush on him.

Then again, and he was adamant that he was not vain or arrogant in his remark, he had noticed the leader role he’d taken on within the group, not only on the TV show, that had the other boys looking up to him. When he mentioned it, the other boys, their egos and defence mechanisms, denied it again and again. Everyone else, however, saw it too.

“So, you’ve got them all wrapped around your finger?” Harrison commented.

“Well, I wouldn’t quite put it like that…” Mike giggled, looking away. His group was not all that pleased with this interpretation of their relationship, and he’d hate to reveal just how true he believed it was in front of them, never mind in front of their idols. It was a time like this when he was thankful he’d created this normal style for himself of wearing sunglasses; he was able to hide all that the eyes gave away.

“So, you’re saying you couldn’t persuade these guys to do whatever you say?” John Lennon chimed in, “Like help you overthrow whatever that guy was who supervised you?”

Mike placed up his index finger as though to point out the invisible error in that statement, stopping John from saying anymore “That was for the good of the band, and we’re glad we did.”

“You really are the leader.” Harrison laughed. Mike humbly shrugged. Now that was something he couldn’t deny, not when he’d made a comment like that, speaking as though he was the mouth of the band. And his friends no doubt would disagree if they were not so dumbfounded by the very suggestion. He felt the evil looks being shot at him, though he didn’t dare look at those they came from.  

“Well prove it.” Lennon insisted all of a sudden, “Go on. They don’t look that obedient today.”

The Monkee wasn’t entirely sure of what the Beatle was asking of him, nor did he know what all the eyes on him in that moment where expecting. Even the stares of his fellow Monkees, he didn’t really know how to interpret. It was almost as though they too where seeing if he’d rise to the challenge. He didn’t even know what the challenge was, how could he complete it?

He kind of wished he was more intoxicated than he was, as everyone else was pretty much out of their minds and they all seemed to get it. Maybe he just had to think like them.

“Alright,” He replied slowly, “Micky, hun, go get me somethin’ to drink.”

The younger boy gave him an exaggerated contemplating look before saying, “Um,  _no_.” with a far sharper expression on his distinctive face.

However, Mike wasn’t going to give up that easy.

“Come on,” He said lightly, “It’s just a drink. Just in the kitchen. You can get one for yourself, we can share it…” He drew off his shades and widened his eyes to make him look pouty. Micky was now hooked, could only look directly at his friend. He knew it was all for show, just to prove a point to Lennon, but he couldn’t see what hurt it would do to help. It might even please Lennon, one of his idols. What bad could come of it?

Well, Davy may murder him for giving in, for making them look subservient, if his stare was anything to go by.

Gingerly, he drew himself up, declaring that he was just going to the bathroom.

“Ha!” Davy burst out, “See.”

Low, Mike proclaimed, “Give it a minute.” He knew Micky well. At least, he hoped he did. He crossed the fingers on the hand that no one could see. Thankfully, attentions were, for the moment, taken from him by Nash’s piping up.

“Ok, so we can fight about there being leaders and whatever, but there are dominant people in bands, right?”

“There’s always alpha and beta males.” Harrison agreed, “John and I are alpha, Paul pretends to be.” He quipped.

Paul gave him a foul look, “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you’re easily dominated by John.” Clapton slurred.

“Fuck off.”                                                                                                                                                                  

“No, I think it’s true.” John affirmed, looking half apologetic, half suggestively at his close friend, “I can make you do whatever I ask.”

“Well, prove that.” Mike proposed in challenge to the one he’d received from the Beatle. John sat up taller on the patio, which was all the acceptance he needed. Well, not without an ultimatum.

“If Micky gets you a drink, I’ll top it.”

“Oh, will you?”

“Sure.”

The party had changed tone once more. It had gone from this tense atmosphere of 15 or so men on the verge of a bare-knuckle fight, to a lovey-dovey, hippy-fest of ‘I love yous’ and ‘no, you’re better looking,’ to the rather fun sense of challenge and everyone now involved in it. Everyone’s eyes were out for Micky. The party had turned strangely, unsettlingly quiet. Only the shufflings of people repositioning, exhales of smoke highlighted breath and clinks of liquid splashing against metal cans could be heard. In fact, there was almost an air of community amongst them all. As they were all musicians, you’d expect them to feel sort of ‘in the same boat.’ It was not always like that. Yeah there were times when you’d catch these guys hanging out together, helping each other, that was not unheard of, nor was it very rare. It was just as you’d also expect from a group like this. Fights, inferiority and superiority complexes, unspoken hierarchies and etiquette. It was quite odd that so many of these guys were getting along at the same time with everybody.

Even Micky found it odd as he walked back out into the garden. Then again, he was not so concerned about the sudden lull as much as he was about everyone’s eyes being on him as he walked back to sit near Mike.

Up the billowing, blue sleeve of his shirt- he hoped no one would see- he carried a can of beer. He had used the bathroom as an excuse to fulfil Mike’s plea, even if it was just to prove a point. He couldn’t help wanting to do it. As he sat back down, he nudged the ice cold can over to the older Monkee, who grinned guiltily.

He couldn’t help but make a huge point of pulling it open, so everyone could see that he had done his part of the challenge. Eyes then cast onto Lennon, who was already planning his ‘one up.’

“Paul…”

“Whatever it is, no.” Paul snapped with a smile. He was not going to give his friend the satisfaction of winning.

Though he knew that John would never just give up like that.

“You won’t even grab a guitar for me?” He pouted.

Paul slumped in his seat, placing his elbow on his thigh and chin on his closed fist, lethargically, “Why?”

John’s pout intensified, “Pleeeese?”

Oh, he knew why, he knew, just as Micky had, that it was all for this fucking stupid thing he and Mike had going. He hated himself for even considering it. But it seemed so harmless. No doubt that was what made Micky do it too. It seemed like a harmless task. But he’d been there when John declared that he would out-do the Monkee. Oh no, Paul was not going to give in that easy.

Meanwhile, Stills was enjoying the spectacle before him so much, he’d gotten restless merely watching. He wanted in, knowing that he had dominance over at least one person here. If it was not the English boy in his new group- as Nash seemed far too enamoured with Croz- it had to be the man he’d given over the Monkees role to.

“Hey, Pete.” He hissed under the sound of John Lennon begging his songwriting partner to go and get a guitar from somewhere. He garnered the attentions of Croz, Nash and Clapton, as well as Peter himself. He thought it good; witnesses were good. “D’you mind rolling me one to share?”

Peter, quite oblivious to the reason for Stills request, sought out some pot. After lighting up and taking a drag, he handed the spliff over to Stills, who sat up and held it out as though it were the holy grail.

“Does getting your groupie to roll you one ‘one up’ getting a drink?” He asked. Soon the attentions of the rest of the party were drawn to him. Shyly, Peter realised just what he’d done, laughing in disbelief at himself. How could he be so dumb? Since he’d created this loveable fool character on the Monkees TV show, he’d spent the entirety of his waking hours not spent with people who knew him well trying to prove that he was nothing like that. And yet he’d fall for such a trick. He felt the fool.

And felt even worse as laughs sounded around him.

“I think that’s definitely a win for Stephen.” Mike ruled. Micky agreed, as did Davy. Then Paul chorused in with George. John looked thoroughly disappointed in himself.

“Fuck this.” He murmured, throwing his arms forward and lying back, his head tipped far up until he could see behind him.

Feeling a little guilty, Paul piped up with a change of rules, “Ok, you could always try and one up Stephen.”

John paused. He needed something good. The guitar thing could’ve still worked if he could find a way to convince Paul to get it. Unfortunately, that was unlikely. He drew in a long breath and, on the exhale, sat up again with a tired look on his face. He’d have to think about this one.

However, it became apparent that the longer he thought, the more chance someone else would get in there first.

As did Allan Clarke, who somehow asked Terry Sylvester to tie the shoelace of his boots. Such a menial task he could easily do himself, and which was carried out so lovingly by Sylvester while fully aware of the reasons for it, in fact carrying it out  _because_  of the Allan’s unmasked want to participate in the challenge, definitely surpassed Stills’ spliff. John kicked himself. He had to outdo that. Why couldn’t he have such sweet friends like Terry? Why could his friends not want him to succeed in this petty contest? Why was he in a group with such egomaniacs like himself?

He looked over with narrowed eyes at the Hollie who sat back, his black boot now tied by the dark-haired kid at his side. This quiet young man, a sometimes-shy lead vocalist, suddenly had the courage to underhandedly stand himself against John Lennon. That was surely not right.

“Hey, you’re not meant to be joining in!” John whined.

“Why not?” Allan shot back. John did not have an answer for him. Whatever hierarchy amongst these bands had been in place, it was now thrown over the fence.

And while he had been complaining about that to Paul, who seemed to just be giggling at him, since the poor boy was obviously struggling to come up with anything, so filling up the time with excuses, Bob Dylan had leant over to the small band of Hollies and mentioned, quite casually, that it was cold out.

“You don’t think so?”

Tony Hicks shrugged, though not so casually. Dylan was an idol to him, a fact which Dylan was well aware of.

“Er, I guess so, yeah.” Hicks politely replied, “I’m not that cold. D’you want my jacket?”

The English guitarist was wearing a small, denim jacket with brown collars, a white, fitted t-shirt underneath. He was a little surprised that anyone could be even remotely cold out in the fine weather but did not even think twice in taking off the jacket and handing it to Bob. The sun beat down on his bared skin, keeping him warm, and he’d kept his idol happy.

Very happy, in fact, as he smugly presented the jacket to everyone. Grinning, Hicks also realised what he had done.

“Beat that, Lennon.” He casually shrugged, tugging the opening of the denim over his shoulders, smiling cheekily down at his lap.

“For fuck sake!” John yelled, “Macca, will you please come over here?”

Paul shook his head, his long moptop shining as it flicked from side to side. John was getting more visibly frustrated by the minute. He got up onto his knees, waddled across the garden and grasped Paul’s wrists.

“Do you forget who I am to you?”

Paul’s eyes darted around him. Everyone stared.

“You’re really going to do this here?” He breathed. There was a smile on his face, but anyone looking close enough could see that there was a vulnerability in his dark eyes. When he looked at John, it was as though they were the only two people in the world. When he peered around, he tried to look normal, play everything off as a joke, as it probably was for the other party-goers. But to him, this wasn’t a joke anymore. Not the way John looked at him, nor the way he spoke to him.

“Yes.” John replied. Then, in front of everyone, without a moment’s hesitation, crushed his lips against the younger Beatle’s. A moment of silence was followed by a chorus of encouraging whoops and disbelieving, yet still positive, gasps sounded from the other musicians. Paul was surprised to hear it. In fact, so was John, but by that point, he didn’t care much. He’d proved his point, and no one was killing him for his gay tendencies, which was a pretty positive thing.

To be honest, by that time, no one really suspected John swung any other way than towards Paul. And none of them cared. They were all too intoxicated, too free-spirited and ‘free-loved’ to actually give a fuck. All the majority was really concerned with was trying to one up that. It would take a hell of a lot of guts, if not anything else to beat kissing your bandmate, and making them submit to you like slave to a master.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut!!!  
> It's starting to get smutty

The kiss had gone on a lot longer than expected. Everyone watched for longer than they meant to. It was getting to some people, turning them on. As a group of guys, most of which had not seen a chick since the start of the day where some may’ve rolled out a bed they shared with wives or fans or actual groupies. That was too long for many of them. For example, Croz, known for his insane sex drive, stared at the two men in the middle of the garden and wished he had some’s lips right now. Not to kiss. No, he wanted a mouth around his semi-hard dick. He was also pretty high, high enough to lose inhibitions almost completely. It seemed that it was the only way to get these guys to loosen up, to be out of their minds. Otherwise, they had images to put out, ways they wanted everyone else to see them. They would never kiss another guy, never have even a remotely sexual thought about anyone in their band, not even to win a challenge, even in they did have a secret crush on them. No, the only way they’d ever act on impulses like that was if they knew most people there wouldn’t remember the next day. That, or everyone else was doing it. Since the latter was not yet true, Croz would blame it on the former.

“Willie,” He tapped Nash on the shoulder, “You wanna beat these Beatles?”

Unsure, the English member of Crosby Stills and Nash looked back at his friend sceptically, “How?”

“Get your lips ‘round this.” He grasped the crotch of his jeans that were becoming a lot less roomie for him. Visibly so too. Nash could not believe it. He could not fathom the idea that Crosby actually wanted a blow job… from him. Ok, so it wasn’t the want of the act that surprised him. It was the fact that he’d turned to Nash for it.

“You’re serious?”

“Can you think of another way to one up that?” Oh, he was deadly serious. Nash felt a shiver down his spine, followed by an odd, hot feeling. He cursed himself for smoking too much pot, because he was totally considering it. He convinced himself it was only to beat the Beatles at their game. They’d been the ones to make it up after all. He’d always wanted to prove himself to them, and prove how good a friend he was to Croz. A _friend_ though? The definition may’ve been a stretch as he turned 180 degrees and let his hands run up to the zipper of Croz’s jeans.

It struck him then that he’d never done this before. Well, no shit. He didn’t go around sucking guys off. He’d not been into guys and doubted very much that he’d ever be in a situation where he might need to know a couple of tricks. He wasn’t so much concerned by the eyes he could feel on him, as much as he was with wanting to be good at the act, both for Croz, and just to prove a skill that not many of the guys would know.

Everything was linked back to proving themselves.

Still, as the kiss went on and heated up, Nash pulled down Croz’s fly and sought out his member from his pants. In his hand, it was half hard, hot, thick. He gazed at it, feeling just slightly overwhelmed. Then he realised that he’d felt the same since he’d met Croz, as though he was in just a tad over his head. As he had done when he’d first sung with Croz and Stills, he sucked in a long breath, thought about what he was going to do and decided that it was now or never.

Meanwhile, he had several spectators. The kiss had been well and good to watch, but Graham Nash going down on David Crosby? That was a whole other sight, one that most of the guys hadn’t actually been privy to. Well, of course not with these two particular participants, but any participants, they’d not seen two guys in the flesh getting it on. It was certainly a jump from merely a kiss. A huge one. And no one, not one person was complaining.

Stills looked on with a huge grin on his face. He felt like a naughty school kid looking at a porno magazine. He felt the same guilt. He was actually enjoying it.

He rolled his eyes and glanced over at Peter Tork. He knew something interesting about the kid that no one else did. Peter had fucked a guy before. He’d said he didn’t enjoy it, but the way his eyes glistened, staring over at John and Paul, Stills wasn’t convinced. Maybe he’d just said it because it was the thing to say. Being gay was still seen as something to cover up, whether it was legal or not now. Well, in the UK, it was legal. In their home states, it would be totally wrong.

So, as Stills’ mind rationalised it, if he was going to experiment with a guy, he might as well do it now, while he was in England, at a nice big hippy party where it seemed everyone was having the same thought.

“Pete.” He called over to his friend once again. The blond monkee peered over, slightly reluctantly at first, but the grin on Stills’ face was enough to convince him it was worth tearing his attention away. “Come here for a sec.”

Most of the Monkees watched as Peter crawled on his hands and knees to Stills. They were curious. They’d always known this one side to Peter, this musical side of him, the talented one, the hardworking one. They’d only just become a little more aware of his hippy side, the side that filled himself full of drugs and hung out with his musician friends he’d somehow picked up along the way. It was as though they could collectively tell that they were about to see another side of him with Stills, since they’d been friends before the Monkees even started.

“You kinda into this stuff?” The younger of the two asked. Peter shrugged, casting a nervous glace over at the two men by Stills’ side, Nash and Crosby, the former of which had his face buried in the latter’s crotch. He couldn’t really deny that it was kind of turning him on. And neither could Stills. “You wanna have a go?”

“You don’t mind?” Peter asked quietly.

Stills shook his head, “I’d rather be with someone experienced.” He quipped, which got him a slight, fond punch from Tork. But since the answer was yes, he wasted no more time joking about it. Peter, already up on his hands and knees, straddled the younger musician and kissed him, sloppily.

“God,” Clapton’s voice rung out amongst the party, “Doesn’t it just look like Tork’s finally getting to fuck himself?” He nodded at the two similar-looking musicians locked in a heated kiss, grabbing at one another to feel their hot flesh beneath their hippy clothes. George Harrison, who seemed hardly fazed by what was going on around him, least of all John and Paul making out close by, cast his gaze over at the Monkee and Stills were up to. A light laugh escaped his mouth.

“I never knew Peter was so narcissistic.”

“No no,” Croz interjected, slightly breathlessly, “It’s Stephen who is.”

“Oh, so it’s Stephen fucking himself.” Clapton reiterated, “Lucky guy.”

“Lucky, yeah?” George chuckled.

“Well, why not? He knows what he likes. It’s got to be the best sex of his life, no?”

George shrugged, understanding where Eric was coming from.

“But it’s always nice to be with a someone who has to learn you. I mean, it builds a bond, between people, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, Guru Harrison’s speaking, guys!” Clapton announced mockingly. It got no attention from the guys busy with each other, though it did get a few snickers here and there. Proudly, he looked back at the Beatle. However, George smiled back with narrowed eyes. Oh, Eric was about to get it, in more ways than one.

“So, you’d rather fuck yourself instead of me?”

“Why, are you offering? Thought you wanted Ringo.”

“I do, but as Stephen said, I can have both. Get your butt over here.”

Clapton did not believe he’d ever been commanded by anyone in quite the way George just did. If he had, he doubted he’d ever been so obedient as to comply, but it is often said that guys think with their dicks. His had overrun his brain, quite enjoying the submissiveness he’d usually never allow himself to seem. He stumbled on his knees over to the Beatle and waited to be told what he wanted done.

Ringo watched as the two guitarists bypassed the snogging stage, unlike Peter and Stephen or John and Paul, and went straight to cupping one another’s hardness as casually and blissfully as though they’d done it many a time before. The oldest Beatle felt himself blush, partly out of embarrassment, as he was watching something, well several things that were totally taboo, but also because he was pretty jealous. He loved George, more than he could ever say, and he was no good at writing songs, nor poetry, or anything like that, so not even on paper or singing could he express how he felt to his friend. But even so, he thought that George knew. George was that kind of guy; he didn’t take things at face value. He observed, he analysed. He was always looking for a deeper understanding, like with what he’d said about sex being more than just an act, but a bond.

That’s why it sort of hurt when he’d happily beckoned Eric over. Did he forget that Ringo was there, willing, as a close friend, to participate in this… well it had long lost it’s challenge. It was now more of a brewing orgy, a sexual free-for-all, for guys to experiment in the company of friends. Maybe it was the friendship that got in the way. Maybe George worried that things would not stay the same had he picked Ringo as a partner. But he had said that he’d have both Ringo and Eric, so why was he focusing only on the latter?

Oh, the drummer didn’t want to spend his time at this party feeling miserable. He already had a reputation for being less than cheerful, at least in expression if not actually in personality, he didn’t want to bring down the mood of the place.

Turning away from George and Eric, he found himself looking at the three remaining Monkees. Mike Nesmith, beneath his sunglasses and strategically grown sideburns, was blushing too. As a boy from Texas, this kind of thing… it wasn’t talked about, it wasn’t good. But he was enjoying it, as was everyone else. He couldn’t see what was so wrong with it. No harm done. It was all just fun.

Davy Jones was looking a little more insecure. He half observed, his expression giving away that me might want to join in but was too proud and too nervous to spark anything. He sat up on his knees, beside Micky Dolenz. Now Micky, Micky had no pride what so ever, no shame. The man did as he pleased and enjoyed whatever he did. At that moment, he looked like a puppy begging to be taken on a walk. He couldn’t sit still for anything. His eyes excitedly darted from the array of couples around him, obviously taking great pleasure in being a voyeur. But just like the others, watching wasn’t quite enough for him. He too wanted to join in. He just wasn’t sure where, or with who.

Ringo was sitting closer to little Davy, probably the most conventionally good-looking boy in the Monkees, if his teen idol status was anything to go by. He was like the Paul McCartney of the Monkees, no one could deny how very sexy he was, not even Ringo.

“Wasn’t expecting this.” The Beatle chuckled, his eyes set firmly on Eric and George. Davy’s, on the other hand, couldn’t find one place to settle. They kept glancing up at Ringo to ensure he wasn’t judging. Davy obviously didn’t know that the oldest Beatle was incapable of doing so. He was far too sweet and far too loving to judge severely.

“Oh no, me neither. Do your parties usually end up like this?” The Monkee asked.

“With a lot of sex? Not my parties specifically. And not usually sex with my mates.”

“Well, it’s better than fighting with them, I s’pose.”

“That’s true. This isn’t too bad, actually.”

Finally, Ringo cast his eyes down at Davy. He was glad that someone else had a similar thought to him; he hated his friends fighting. Whether Davy in his own band was provoker of fights or not, it was nice to hear someone say it.

Ringo knew that it was probably the drugs, or his jealousy of Eric Clapton, or this whole situation at the party of broken societal norms, but he was starting to wonder whether Davy might consider being his partner. God, it sounded so much like this was a formal school dance. Everyone was trying to find someone they could ask, and Ringo’s choice had been snapped up by a guy way cooler than himself. He wished he’d been quicker.

Still, Davy was cute, and he had the added bonus of not being too close a friend, therefore it couldn’t get too weird when they saw each other again.

“Its not too bad.” Davy had parroted quietly while Ringo was lost in his contemplations.

“Do you dig it?” He asked. Davy looked confused by the question… or conflicted about his answer.

“This stuff? Man, it’s whatever floats you’re boat. I don’t get hung up on things like…”

“No, I mean, do you like it, would you ever…?”

“Kiss a guy? Oh well, I don’t know, y’know. If the opportunity passed…”

“What if I’m your opportunity?”

Davy’s already huge brown eyes widened, and his perfect, pouty pair of pink lips parted in astonishment.

“Wha… really?”

“Just asking.”

Well, if it were any other situation… Ringo probably wouldn’t be asking something so seemingly strange, never mind whether Davy would accept it or not. Since they were in the situation, it seemed rude not to accept. Rude, or was Davy just denying the fact that he’d wanted to join in for a while. Either way, he wasn’t thinking straight, not by any stretch of the imagination, so he got up onto his knees, inched closer to the Beatle and laid one of his girl-creaming kisses on his lips.

Ringo had underrated lips, he decided. They were plump, nice and pink, had nice shape to them. They were quite wonderful to kiss. If Davy had to have chosen which Beatle- in fact, which guy here in general- he would kiss, he probably would’ve gone with Paul. That man’s mouth was almost as perfect as his own. Now, however, he was quite satisfied with his choice of partner. Ringo was gentle and sweet, allowing the younger man to guide him in what he wanted.

“Mike…” Micky’s whining voice sounded behind the two men kissing. In watching what had developed between Ringo and Davy, the Monkee had decided it was his turn to get some. The closest guy to him happened to be the very man everyone assumed he had a crush on. And…  he’d say they were probably right. Not a crush in the kind of school boy way. Not like he’d stare at his friend from miles off and doodle his name on any scrap of paper he could find. No, it was more like he found himself gravitating towards Mike when he had no reason to do so. He seemed to have a brotherly bond with him, having more in-jokes and games than the others. Then again, it wasn’t all that much like a brotherly bond, because neither man ever really fought. The others did. Mike and Peter clashed about their music, both aspiring to be musicians above everything else. Mike and Davy rammed horns because they were fiery Capricorns and their egos were big enough to rival anyone else’s at the party. Micky rarely butt heads with anyone, but he’d lost his patience with Davy before, and maybe Peter. However, with the latter, it was probably the other way around, as Micky liked the on-screen chemistry he and Peter possessed, whereas the older Monkee preferred not to appear as ‘the dumb one’ in at any other time than on screen.

Mike, on the other hand, was quietly cool. Course he had an ego and took everything way too seriously, but Micky had the ability to draw the silliness out of the man. Mike had a wicked sense of humour and a great smile. Micky felt it an accomplishment when he was able to coax one onto his lips.

He wondered if it might help in this situation. Mike had not opened his mouth once since this whole make-out session had begun. He’d sat quietly, not knowing where to look, whether he really liked it or not, whether he thought it ok or not. He’d never stop anyone else doing what they wanted to do, it was ‘their hang up,’ he just wasn’t sure if he should join in. And if Micky wanted to persuade him to place even one single kiss on his lips, he’d have to find some way to make him feel comfortable.

“We have to…” He whined like a kid.

Mike’s brow knotted beneath his shades, “Have to what?”

“We have to get involved… it’s only right.”

“Pretty sure we don’t. There isn’t a rule book.”

“Well,” Micky thought hard, “I’m going to have to write one. I’ll title it ‘Get _Into_ The In-Crowd.”

“Yeah?” Mike softly chuckled to himself, “I see what ya did there.”

As though the half-pun was something to be proud of, Micky shrugged humbly, pursing his lips and closing his eyes for a moment, as if to allow it to sink in. For Mike, it already had, and he was not laughing at the genus of the line, rather the ridiculousness of it. Still, he was where Micky wanted him, focusing on him rather than on the people around them, the few remaining guys with their eyes darting over each pair.

Mike sort of knew what Micky was doing. The first whimper had told him all. When Micky wanted something, he turned into a polite child. He’d beg for it, but if you told him to stop, he’d say no further word. And it wasn’t too difficult to tell that he was turned on by the sight in front of him. Mike had been subtle in his glance down his friend’s body and gotten a look at an unmistakeable shape in the crotch of the boy’s pants.

With seriousness infecting his voice, he asked, “Do you really want to?”

Now, Micky was rarely ever serious. Not, like, dead straight with difficult conversations. He had his ways of dealing with stiff. But here, Mike saw a side of the boy he hadn’t been party to before. Micky’s sparkling brown eyes showed a sense of vulnerability he’d always covered up with smiles and jokes.

“Yes.”

Broken to the boy’s gaze, Mike could not help himself, “Well come here then. I have to warn ya, I’ve not done _this_ kinda thing before, so if I’m shit…”

Micky silenced him with a kiss, kneeling beside him. As it heated up, he kicked one leg over Mike’s thighs and sat down lightly on them. Mike had limbs so thin they were like sticks and Micky feared breaking them. That did not, however, prevent him from doing anything else.


	4. Chapter 4

On the other side of the garden, Allan Clarke, Tony Hicks and Terry Sylvester’s eyebrows were raised as high as they could reach. They were not usually accustomed to parties like this, well, like it had been before, with everyone lounging around, high and drunk. They were certainly not used to sights such as one guy’s face literally buried in the lap of another’s, several guys locking lips sloppily and tenderly, or people sitting on top of one another without a thought to how suggestive it was. It had gone far past suggestive by that time. It was just explicit.

And weirdly enough, they didn’t feel quite like they probably should have, in that they felt as though they were being left out, left behind. They should join in; it seemed like the right thing to do.

Well, that and they also weren’t going to lie to themselves, they wanted to join in. Tony, after giving Bob Dylan his jacket, almost as a symbol of the power the songwriter had over him, and subsequently watching the scenes that unfolded amongst everyone else, he was curious as to whether Dylan would be interested in being his ‘partner.’ Probably not. After all, what was Tony but a fan that was pretty good at guitar. He was nowhere near Dylan’s talent, nowhere near his popularity. If anything, should Dylan not see him as an annoyance, rather than a potential partner?

The youthful, blue eyed Hollie glanced back at the serious, brooding songwriter. Did he seem at all interested in what was going on? Tony couldn’t tell. Dylan was watching, but he didn’t look really into it. He had quite a neutral, slightly stoned look on his face.

When Tony looked back, he saw Allan and Terry whispering to one another. Despite sitting not inches from the lead vocalist, he couldn’t hear what they were saying. All he could see was their smiling lips moving, one saying something, then the other speaking back. They grinned nervously. Both were shy things. Allan had become less so since he’d taken over as the leader in the Hollies after Graham left, but Tony knew him well enough to see the vulnerability in his smirk, the uncertainty. As for Terry, he’d always been timid, from the moment the Hollies first met him back when he was in The Swinging Blue Jeans they’d noticed. He’d never change.

Shy people seemed to understand each other. Tony should know. He wasn’t the most confident person ever. More so than his bandmates perhaps, but not by much. And it seemed that these two shy people in the band understood how the other was feeling about all this. Taking one last look around, Allan etched towards the youngest Hollie and smoothed a hand up his thigh. Tony wasn’t sure he should be watching. Then again, he’d watched everyone else. And he couldn’t draw his gaze away, for some reason. Perhaps out of curiosity. It had been so with the other guys around him, the only difference here was that it was his close friend. Maybe that made it all the more intriguing.

Terry smiled brightly as he watched Allan’s hand. The older man wore a ring on his pinkie finger, an oddly elaborate one for such a quiet man who was usually happy to blend into the background. Even as he joined in with the insane direction this party had taken, he made not a move to stand out, to announce or proclaim what he was about to do. This was merely for him and Terry only. That’s why Tony felt some guilt as he watched. Not enough to stop, though.

Allan shuffled up and stretched out his neck so that his head was almost beside Terry’s. Then he turned his face towards the younger man’s and kissed him. Terry’s eyes fluttered shut.

“This is fucking…” A voice sounded behind Tony, a distinctive one. Attempting to be casual, he slowly turned his head. Bob Dylan wore a smirk as disbelieving as everyone else’s before they’d begun making out.

“I guess it is fucking.” The Hollie laughed lightly, “Quite literally.”

Dylan shrugged, “I was going to say ‘fucking insane,’ but I guess you could say that.”

“Well, it’s pretty insane that I gave you my jacket. Everything else hasn’t really surprised me.”

The songwriter shrugged again, only this time to ask what Tony had meant. The Hollie felt his cheeks fill with colour. His brain suddenly felt starved of blood, because it was either rushing to his cheeks or down south. It took a moment for him to think of a reply. By this time, though, he didn’t really care what he said. It was too crazy a situation to think rationally. As long as he just phrased it casually, it didn’t matter; he could always deny what he’d said the next day. No one would be any the wiser.

“I don’t know if you know that you’re… like, one of my idols…”

Before he could continue, Dylan affirmed, “I do.” Which sent Tony into giggled. Well, he wasn’t sure what more he could say other than,

“Are you into this?” He pointed at this two friends making out, Stephen Stills and Peter Tork burying their hands in each other’s pants, John Lennon and Paul McCartney rutting against one another by the porch, Micky Dolenz moaning pretty much the loudest as Mike subtly toyed with him, Eric Clapton and George Harrison laughing between sloppy snogs, Davy Jones quietly turning Ringo starry-eyed for him and his old friend Graham Nash with David Crosby’s hand on the back of his head, pushing down onto his dick as far as he could take him in. It suddenly occurred to Tony that he and Bob where the last two. Now it really did only seem right to pair up.

“It’s not been my kind of thing before.” Dylan cautiously stated.

“You think it’s been any of our _thing_ before?” Tony replied. Dylan pursed his lips. “Look, we’re the last two. Either we can sit here and be bloody English about everything and chat…”

“I’m not English.” Dylan pointed out, which Tony took to mean he was not going to take that route. He himself had no interest in doing so either, he was just scared to approach Dylan first. What if the previous comment had just been disassociating himself with Tony, not an advance? What if he had no interest? Tony sat, unsure of where to look, waiting for some indication of what to do.

“You just going to shut up now?” The songwriter asked. Tony felt his cheeks blush even brighter.

“What would you prefer I do?”

“Come here.”

Gingerly, he obeyed, waddling on his knees over to him and kneeling not inches from touching him. He was too nervous even to get so close in case he accidently brushed Dylan. He knew it was silly, but he just didn’t have the confidence in him. Luckily, at least one of the two did. The brash American reached up from his lower stance, as he sat cross-legged, and pecked the Hollie on the lips. He then grabbed his wrists and placed them on his hips.

“Don’t be shy.”

Well, that was bloody hard (no pun intended) but Tony heard it not as encouragement, rather as an order. Ignoring the speed at which his heart beat and the instability of his shaking limbs, he looked Dylan in the pale blue eyes and crushed their lips together. This was a dream Tony never realised he’d had before, an aspiration he never knew he’d aspired to until that moment. He’d never been into guys. Then again, he had to admit to being thoroughly seduced, just as many of the other party-goers were, by Dylan’s words. Was it really so much of a step up?

And so the whole party found themselves paired up with their friends, making out and making up as though this was something they’d always wanted to do, as though it was a natural occurrence for them all. It was quite lucky that no neighbours bothered to be nosy that day. Should they look over, they would’ve seen a plethora of musicians in compromising positions with one another. If one word was ever breathed about it, if it got out to the press, that would surely be the ending of all their careers. What a way to go. Out with a bang. 16 influential, loved guys, all thrown out because they were curious. They were too horny to keep their hands off of each other. That really would be a way to go.

Not that any of them had that on their minds in the moment. If there was any anxiety amongst them anymore, it was only because they wanted to show off, they wanted to be the best they could, as each of them usually did in other situations. They were a competitive bunch, in and out of their business. And if they weren’t interested in what had begun as a competition, they merely wanted things to feel good for each other.

Things seemed to be the best between John and Paul, their actions seemed more natural than anything, less unstable and nervous. No surprises there. They were probably the least anxious since they already seemed to know what each other liked, and had long lost interest in what everyone else was doing. Their kiss had heated up until John laid a hand over Paul’s chest and pushed him backwards. He straddled him at the hips, placing delightful pleasure on the younger man’s crotch, and once they were in a position to hide it, with barely a space between them, John unzipped Paul’s fly. His hand slipped inside his trousers. He swallowed every moan Paul threatened to make. It was quite perfect.

Meanwhile, as they were romantically getting it on- as romantically as one could when higher than the clouds in the sky and lounging out in someone’s backyard amongst a load of musician ‘friends’- Croz was just about getting to the end, his climax. He still had Nash’s mouth around him. He wondered how the younger man had the jaw strength to go on so long, and possessed such control of his gag reflex for a guy that had never sucked dick before. Of course, Croz himself was not actually speaking from experience, per say, but he had been blown by enough chicks to gain some insight, and he had to say that, by far, this was not the worse job he’d ever received. In any other circumstances, he would’ve teased Nash with accusations, but he really didn’t want him to stop for anything in the world, nor could he find the words to do so, as he was lost in a partly orgasmic, partly drug-induced high that had him pretty much tongue tied. Tongue tied and unable to control himself as the hand he had gripping Nash’s hair was quite brutal, uncaring as it tugged, pushed, forced him down further, sped him up. He had such a control over Nash.

And Nash was well aware of it. There was a reason he’d managed to go on so long. There was a reason he made not a sound other than the wet slap of his mouth trying to accommodate. There was a reason he complied with what Croz wanted. It wasn’t that he kind of liked it, though he wouldn’t deny it. It wasn’t that he felt he was proving anything. There was, in fact, many reasons to choose from, but pretty much all of them had to do with Croz. They all stemmed from this odd power Croz seemed to have over Nash. Always feeling like the hanger on of the group, giving Croz what he wanted to as high a standard as Nash could manage was almost his way of keeping in favour with those who merely belonged where he aspired to, his way of pleasing (literally) such a cool guy who probably otherwise wouldn’t have looked his way twice if he hadn’t placed himself in his way.

He didn’t care if his throat strained, or jaw ached or if he choked. He was going to see this through to the end. He did interchange with his hands at times, if only to catch his breath. Then he was back down, suffocating in the humid smell of sex, burying his nose in the rough fabric of Croz’s jeans, taking him as far in as he possibly could, delighting only if a strangled moan escaped the older man’s throat, loud enough for him to hear.

Nash felt himself stiffen, if he was not already hard as a rock, as a stream of warnings from Croz’s mouth let him know how close he was.

“I’m gonna…” was enough to warn Nash that he might want to brace himself. Croz let his grip on the younger man’s hair slip so he could get out the way. He lifted his head off Croz’s dick, but clasped his hands around it, pumping him the home stretch, so not to leave him in the lurch.

The sight in front of the Englishman, he decided he could’ve written a million songs about. It instantly filled him with infinite inspiration and excitement; his hands forcing his friend undone, the familiar face tossed backwards in total bliss, in a well-earned release. Too bad he didn’t have a pen and paper with him, he had so many words, so many metaphors, similes, ways to describe what was going on. Well even if there was a pen nearby, his hands were suddenly dirtied. He’d have to clean himself off, and deal with himself before he even thought of scrawling down a verse or two. He was hoping Croz might, just might, return the favour. If not, there were plenty of horny bastards at the party, friends who might take pity on him.

But he didn’t really want any of them. He much preferred Croz.

As the older musician recovered, he whipped his head up, a smile as wide as Nash had ever seen hidden under the line of moustache on his top lip. Now, usually, guys felt bad if things were that quick. They aspired to last longer. But in that moment, both men had the same thought. As though it was a race, they were full of pride that they’d finished first. Well, at least one of them had.

“Fuckin’ beat them, didn’t we?” Croz laughed low. He sounded casual, like nothing had happened, like he had not been out of breath just seconds ago. He was still out of breath; he seemed to just hide it well. Nash, on the other hand, couldn’t draw in a single ounce of oxygen. His chest heaved.

“Yeah, I did.” He replied, hating how weak he sounded. To compensate, he couldn’t help taunting his friend, “Because you realise that was all me, right?”

Croz raised an eyebrow playfully, “Yeah? I did nothing, did I?”

“Pretty much.” Nash gestured at his crotch. Croz nodded slowly, his expression changing slightly. There was almost a glimmer of vulnerability, wondering if Nash was serious. The younger man knew that look too well. He’d been the one displaying it before. The thing was, Croz didn’t feel that he owed anyone in life, he was under no one’s control, so Nash doubted very much that he’d want to repay the favour out of the same obligation that he’d done it first.

The thing was: he was wrong.

“Come on then, if we’re gonna beat everyone else.” Croz said quite casually. He got up onto his knees and pat the patch of grass beside him, telling Nash to sit there. Slightly bewildered (and full of an excitement that made him feel faint) the latter man obeyed, placing himself cross-legged right beside his bandmate. Croz then turned to face him, got onto all fours, and placed a pushing hand on his chest which pressed him onto his back. They were in the same positon as before, only reversed and laying the opposite way, vertical rather than parallel to the house.


End file.
